A Letter Lost
by oftigersandmagpies
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Before the Fall, Jim wrote Sebastian a letter. Unfortunately, the sniper never gets the message.


How long had it been?

Just a week?

Yes.

Just one week.

Seven days.

168 hours.

10,080 minutes.

604,800 seconds.

Jim could break it down into milliseconds and microseconds and nanoseconds too. It was just a matter of adding zeros. Just calculating numbers. And if there was one thing Jim Moriarty excelled at, it was figuring out how things worked.

Numbers, chance, probability, people.

All the same.

Just things to figure out.

Or at least they had been.

It was all a game. Something to occupy his time, and keep his brilliant mind from tearing itself apart.

His mind might be in tact, but his game tore something else apart instead.

Just one week.

Seven days ago, they were happy. Or as happy as Jim and Sebastian ever were. Bickering and fighting like children with crushes. Hurdling empty threats, brandishing weapons they never intended to use (at least not on one another). Making up and cuddling on the couch under a blanket. Having a shag and calling it a night. All in the span of a few hours.

Normal.

Or their version of it.

But seven days ago, there was a game to win, and Jim had to make his final move. He was ready to pay no price at all, because Jim Moriarty didn't pay for things he wanted. He took them. Or convinced people to give them to him. This was no different. This would be just another game he won. Just another opponent outwitted.

A little vacation in a safe house, just for posterity's sake.

That was all it was supposed to be.

A few weeks, at most.

For which, he would have to be content with watching Sebastian simmer and stew from various security monitors. Undoubtedly pissed at him.

But he left him instructions, precise instructions.

An envelope, plain and simple, with the sniper's name on it, sitting squarely on the criminal's work desk. Sebastian would see it right when he walked in the room.

If he ever did.

But the first day went by, and as expected, Sebastian came home raving. Threw a lamp against the wall. Hurdled plates and glasses and tea cups about the kitchen. Spent a good deal of time crouched in the shower, cursing and screaming and crying.

Difficult to watch, but touching to see.

Yet he didn't head in Jim's office. Why not? He always went in Jim's office without his permission. Why would he not go now? Jim thought that maybe it was just because it was the first day.

But he didn't go on the second either. He hardly acknowledged the door even existed, and seemed to look away from it when he passed it. The same for the third, fourth, fifth, and so on.

On day seven, Jim began to worry.

It wasn't uncommon for Sebastian to clean his rifles or handguns, but the sniper usually did so only before a very important hit.

The shell of a man sat silently, stoically running his hands over the metal of a small handgun Jim had given him for a present, before inexplicably turning the thing on himself, sticking the loaded barrel in his mouth.

Jim stood, clutching the security monitor and screaming at the top of his lungs. As though by something like a miracle, Sebastian put the gun down, replacing it with an unlit cigarette, just dangling from his lips, as was sometimes his habit when he wanted to smoke but Jim was around to yell at him for doing it in their flat.

The criminal couldn't take any more close calls like that, and he knew.

He had to go home.

It was time.

He flew out of the safe house, hailing a cab and racing across London. Every moment he thought about Sebastian, about seeing his face in the flesh, about kissing him again. He thought about how mad his tiger would be, how furious. He wondered if he might punch Jim straight in the jaw. Jim would have smiled.

They would make up, though Jim wouldn't apologize. He would berate the sniper for being stupid enough not to find his orders, Jim's letter, the explanation he had left behind saying to lay low for a few weeks, and to wave 'hi' to the cameras, so Jim could see his smiling face.

He couldn't get into the building fast enough. Every second felt like yet another week, trailing by like a snail stuck in molasses. He rode the lift up to the floor their flat was on, and in his excitement, dropped the keys as he fumbled with the lock on the door. He pushed his key in, turning it and opening the door only to hear a loud *_**pop**_*.

Jim raced to the source of the noise, finding Sebastian, his Sebastian, holding that damn gun. The one Jim had given to him, the one that was supposed to protect him, to save his life. It was gripped in a lifeless hand, attached to a still-warm body, fallen sideways over couch cushions, a hole blown through the side of a blonde head, smattering bone and brain on the white couch, an unlit cigarette hanging between soft lips.

In that moment, Jim Moriarty died.

He plucked the cigarette from the dead man's mouth, placing it between his own lips, just letting it sit there for a moment.

The gun.

The Judas of a gift.

He plucked it from calloused fingertips that would never touch his skin again, and set the damned thing on the coffee table. Jim didn't deserve a bullet.

Quick, painless, efficient.

No.

He had burned the heart out of the only thing he ever cared for, and Jim deserved to have the same done to himself.

"Stay, Tiger."

The criminal walked into their bedroom, stripping the tiger patterned throw from the foot of the bed. Then, into his office, for his favorite bottle of whiskey and the blasted letter.

Sebastian had stayed, just like as instructed.

"Good Tiger."

Jim smiled softly, walking over to the couch. He lifted his lover's head, sitting down and replacing it on his lap. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, covering up Sebastian's legs as well, so he didn't get cold either.

He opened the bottle of whiskey, holding the cigarette in one hand and taking a sip straight from it with a satisfied gulp, before replacing the cigarette between his lips. Sebastian apparently didn't want any. Jim poured a bit for him anyway, but the silly sod got it all over the place.

Well, if they were going to waste liquor, they might as well have a party. Jim doused the tiger blanket, pouring the liquid all over it, as well as himself, the sofa, and Sebastian.

"I wrote you a letter, Sebby. How rude of you not to read it. "

He opened the sealed envelope, taking out the contents and reading aloud.

"Ahem. 'My Dearest Sebastian,' Dearest, see? You are my dearest, you know. Silly little tiger. Anyway. 'Don't worry your pretty little head. I'm sure you've made an idiot of yourself by now and destroyed our flat. Well done, doofus. As much as I've probably enjoyed laughing at the show, you had better clean it all up before I get home. I'm not sure when that will be, likely not for a few weeks. But I've got my eye on you, dear. Let Alexi handle all of your assigned hits until I get back. Do stay out of trouble. I don't want to come home cross with you for disobeying. See you soon, tiger. Love, Jim.' Wasn't that nice? And you didn't even bother to read it. Rude."

Jim sighed heavily, realizing they were out of booze. He tossed the bottle carelessly behind him, hearing it shatter against the wall. He reached his hand into Sebastian's back pocket, pulling out his lighter. He brought it to the cigarette, taking a deep puff and blowing it into the air.

"Don't you dare call me a hypocrite, you bastard."

The words were affectionate, adoring, loving even.

He flicked the lighter open and shut for a few moments before setting fire to the letter. He tossed it beside him on the couch, where the booze-soaked blanket began to catch aflame as well. He puffed the cigarette, pulling it away from his lips with one hand, and carding his fingers through Sebastian's blood-stained hair with the other, a smile on his lips as the flames crawled up the blanket, closer to him, nearly at his shoulders.

"See you soon, Tiger."


End file.
